MAM. Nay, good sir, blame not him; Believe me, 'twas against his will or knowledge: I saw her by chance. SUB. Will you commit more sin, To excuse a varlet? MAM. By my hope, 'tis true, sir. SUB. Nay, then I wonder less, if you, for whom The blessing was prepared, would so tempt heaven, And lose your fortunes. MAM. Why, sir? SUB. This will retard The work a month at least. MAM. Why, if it do, What remedy? But think it not, good father: Our purposes were honest. SUB. As they were, So the reward will prove. [A LOUD EXPLOSION WITHIN.] --How now! ah me! God, and all saints be good to us.-- [RE-ENTER FACE.] What's that? FACE. O, sir, we are defeated! all the works Are flown in fumo, every glass is burst; Furnace, and all rent down, as if a bolt Of thunder had been driven through the house. Retorts, receivers, pelicans, bolt-heads, All struck in shivers! [SUBTLE FALLS DOWN AS IN A SWOON.] Help, good sir! alas, Coldness and death invades him. Nay, sir Mammon, Do the fair offices of a man! you stand, As you were readier to depart than he. [KNOCKING WITHIN.] Who's there? my lord her brother is come. MAM. Ha, Lungs! FACE. His coach is at the door. Avoid his sight, For he's as furious as his sister's mad. MAM. Alas! FACE. My brain is quite undone with the fume, sir, I ne'er must hope to be mine own man again. MAM. Is all lost, Lungs? will nothing be preserv'd Of all our cost? FACE. Faith, very little, sir; A peck of coals or so, which is cold comfort, sir. MAM. O, my voluptuous mind! I am justly punish'd. FACE. And so am I, sir. MAM. Cast from all my hopes-- FACE. Nay, certainties, sir. MAM. By mine own base affections. SUB [SEEMING TO COME TO HIMSELF]. O, the curst fruits of vice and lust! MAM. Good father, It was my sin. Forgive it. SUB. Hangs my roof Over us still, and will not fall, O justice, Upon us, for this wicked man! FACE. Nay, look, sir, You grieve him now with staying in his sight: Good sir, the nobleman will come too, and take you, And that may breed a tragedy. MAM. I'll go. FACE. Ay, and repent at home, sir. It may be, For some good penance you may have it yet; A hundred pound to the box at Bethlem-- MAM. Yes. FACE. For the restoring such as--have their wits. MAM. I'll do't. FACE. I'll send one to you to receive it. MAM. Do. Is no projection left? FACE. All flown, or stinks, sir. MAM. Will nought be sav'd that's good for med'cine, think'st thou? FACE. I cannot tell, sir. There will be perhaps, Something about the scraping of the shards, Will cure the itch,--though not your itch of mind, sir. [ASIDE.] It shall be saved for you, and sent home. Good sir, This way, for fear the lord should meet you. [EXIT MAMMON.] SUB [RAISING HIS HEAD]. Face! FACE. Ay. SUB. Is he gone?